To Find Her Way Back to Him
by Sandy S
Summary: Set in season 12 of Buffy. Buffy wants to find her way back to Spike. She just doesn't know how to do it until he shows up. Disclaimer: I own nothing. Joss owns all.


_You're stuck in my head, and I can't get you out of it.  
If I could do it all again,  
I know I'd go back to you.  
– _"Back to You," sung by Selena Gomez

Even though Buffy was exhausted, she sensed him as soon as she stepped out of the police station. Her reaction was complicated as it always was regarding him. She felt a confusing amalgamation of emotions that she could only parse out as fear, hope, longing. . . uncertainty. Ever since they'd broken up, she had expected his appearance. He was forever the moth to her flame, and though she'd fantasized a thousand ways this meeting could go, she now found herself too caught up in feeling to think.

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she passed where he was leaning against the wall of the law enforcement building, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his duster.

"Hey," she half-whispered. That was all she needed to say, and he fell in step beside her as he always did.

"Hey, pet," Spike said, and she wished so much that he'd reach for her hand, but he remained resolutely distant. Her heart ached. "Long day?"

"And night," she acknowledged, peeking at him, longing for a glimpse of the brightness of his blue eyes. God, she missed him. "What are you doing here?"

He shrugged. "Just consulting with Dowling on a little something."

It was so vague that she knew it was fake. He'd come to see her. Old Buffy would have pushed him – would have thrown him against the nearest wall and held him by the neck with a stake over his heart until he confessed what he was really up to, but that was Sunnydale. So, she said, "Oh."

She continued walking, and he cleared his throat as they reached a stoplight, and she unnecessarily pushed the button for the crosswalk. There were no cars in sight. They lingered in the yellow light of the street lamps. She toed the concrete with her boot, and he leaned against the pole. He was always leaning – leaning whichever direction she needed him to go. Like a tree in the wind. She'd relied on that for so long that she felt naked without him. He was here now, so she took a wavering step.

She hugged her arms around her ribcage. "Dawn had her baby."

"Xander texted me, lo. . . Slayer." God, he couldn't even say it now; her heart pounded. What did that mean? "Can't believe the Bit and Xander have a little nipper."

Buffy smiled, the emotion behind the smile genuine. "Joyce is beautiful. I think she looks just like Mom's baby pictures."

"If she lives up to her predecessor, she'll be a fine lady." He was studying her; she could feel it, but the way the light fell, his face was in shadow, hidden from her.

The light switched, and the walk sign blinked to a white stick figure. They crossed the street, and Buffy felt Spike going slower than her, drawing out the meeting. Maybe that was a good sign?

"Where did you go?" The question was simple but multi-layered. Was she testing him? Was she pushing him away hard enough? She didn't know. She just knew that she was confused by all the people in her life who were seemingly certain about their direction when she was wavering.

"Away." He was silent for a heartbeat. "But not out of the Earth's atmosphere this time."

She couldn't help it; she laughed. Even though it wasn't all that funny, she was tickled by this unexpected statement. They reached the other side of the street, and a car rushed by behind them – the lone vehicle in a sea of empty concrete roads.

Humor allowed her to say, "I missed you." So much. He was her best friend and had been for a long time now.

"Missed you, too." His casual return hinted at unspoken emotion. But his hands remained firmly tucked away.

"Do you think. . . do you think that you'll be going away again?" There was a park across from this particular police station, and she spied an empty bench calling her name. She wasn't sure she wanted him to go back to her new place with her. . . not yet. Her heart skipped a beat, both in anxiety about his potential response but also because she couldn't fathom him leaving. Before he could answer, a question pushed past her lips in an awkward stumble, "Want to sit?"

"Want to talk for a bit, eh?" His tone was kind.

Kind wasn't what she wanted. She wanted him to scream at her for going along with this mutual-break-up bullshit that was wrapped up in her own fears and overwrought thoughts.

She gave him a close-lipped smile. "Yeah. I mean. If you do."

"I'm still me, pet. I'll always want to have a conversation with you. No matter our. . . status." She wasn't sure what that meant.

She sat on the bench first, leaning forward, her arms wrapping a little looser around her midsection, her feet crossing at the ankle. She felt a rush of air as he slid down beside her, his arms sliding along the back of the bench as he relaxed back. There was something so comfortable about the motion and the careful way he held his face that told her perhaps it was a façade – same as hers.

"You didn't answer my question." Her quiet words hid her trepidation. Did she want to know this answer?

"Thought about it," he admitted. Her stomach dropped. Of course, he had. "But. . ."

She turned her head to watch his face, straining to make sense of anything. "But?" She felt like she was holding her breath.

"I'm your friend, first and foremost." Oh, they were friends. "Started out that way. Will always be. Like it or not, I'm tied to you." He was quiet. And then, "Unless you want me to go."

"No. Don't go," she said in a rush.

"Still not ready for me to not be here?" His voice was deep and low. How did he remember exactly what she said all those years ago?

She felt the emotion surging forth again, a tumult of feelings that she gave up on making sense of. Instead, she gripped the edge of the bench with both hands and deflected from her own internal struggle. "I know this isn't really a mutual thing that we decided." She could say more, but she left it at that, a bit stunned that she had gone there.

His arm moved from the back of the bench, and he picked up her hand in his, not clasping her fingers with his, just holding it loosely. She shivered at his touch even now. He didn't say anything for such a long time that she snuck a glance at his face. His eyes were closed, his eyebrows drawn slightly together. She wanted to shake him. He was a talker, always had been, and she couldn't stand this stillness.

Finally, he said, "'Course not, Slayer. It'll never be mutual for me, but I'll do what you need. . . what you ask of me, including sticking with the party line. It's bloody well what I do."

"I don't want it to be like that."

He let go of her hand, and she immediately felt the loss. "But it is."

"It's like me using you all over again. Just not for sex this time." She wanted to underscore that. She'd made love to him more times than she could count by now, and those memories far outstripped whatever they did together in Sunnydale. Before he could say anything else, she asked, "Why didn't you fight for me this time?"

"You were pretty certain, pet." He sounded tired. "Can we be done now?" Tears filled her eyes because he didn't cut her off like this, not since they were so close, and she heard him draw a deep breath. "You said you loved me, and then, you got tired of me when there was nothing going on that you needed me for. What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to fight for?"

She emitted a small sound of distress that came out like a squeak when she tried to suppress it.

"I didn't always believe it, but now that I've had my love returned. . . now that you fought for me . . . for us. Now, I believe I deserve more." His words were gentle, but he was resolute.

"You do deserve more, a-and I'm sorry."

He sighed. "I know you are."

She could tell he was done, so her courage surged. She had to do this now, or she wouldn't do it at all. "Do you know all the time we didn't have a Big Bad to fight?"

"I was there. Haven't forgotten."

"I-I had too much time on my hands to think. And you know that thinking and Buffy are un-mix-y."

"You're too intelligent to say that about yourself." She knew he was purposefully being concrete, drawing her out without even trying. It was their way. . . or his with her.

She huffed in frustration, trying to get him to react, show emotion. Anything. "I meant that it gave me too much time to think about stuff. My life. What I want to do with myself. Things I'd already sorted out. But I overthought them until I couldn't see reality because it was shaded by confusion and fear." She leaned back then, her hands clasped in her lap. "And that wasn't fair to you. I should have talked it through and realized what I was doing." A tear fell over her cheek, a fast, hot stream to her chin and down her neck. "Can you forgive me?"

He didn't reply, and then, he said, his voice husky and laden with all the emotion he'd so carefully tried to hold away from her. "Maybe."

"O-oh." Another tear spilled out of her other eye, and she turned her head away, focusing on the trashcan in the distance.

She heard him shift closer to her on the bench. "Buffy. . . love. What're you saying?"

She was fighting for him. Didn't he get that? When did she regress back to no-words-for-emotions Buffy? She shrugged, unable to speak.

He touched her shoulder and squeezed. "I'm here. I still love you."

"I love you, too." The words were easy for her now; she'd said them over and over to him for months because she cherished the way his eyes lit up when she expressed the depth of her feelings for him. "A-and I made a mistake." She was too afraid to move back into his arms, not unless he gave her something that told her it was okay. . . that he wanted her there.

"Will you look at me? Seen enough of your backside to last my whole unlife, and I can't exactly forgive the back of your noggin."

There was teasing in his tone, and she let out a watery giggle, her fingers finding and wiping away the tears. She turned then and launched herself into his arms. He held her, his hands stroking her back and massaging the little spot she always liked. She buried her face in his chest, and he leaned his cheek on her head. She felt like her world was right side up again.

"I missed this, too," she whispered.

"Me, too, love."

She held him tighter. "Don't ever let me go. And remind me when I start overthinking. Okay?"

"Okay." He kissed her hair.

"Buffy?" a familiar voice asked. . . a voice that was not Spike's.

Buffy blinked, the lights in Dawn's living room too bright compared to the shadows of the park. She slumped forward, her mind coming back to reality. God, was this reality? Spike was standing across the room, listening to Xander animatedly rattle on about something. He wasn't even looking her direction. Her heart sank. This _was_ their reality, and she didn't know if she'd ever find her way back to him.

"You okay?" Willow asked, her voice filled with concern. "Are things with Spike – "

The end.


End file.
